Page 11 of Made for You

“Yeah,” I say, giving him one last, long look. “Sorry—I’m totally going—”

“I don’t want you to walk away either,” he interrupts, his voice lower now. A little husky. “Julia.”

My name on his lips is everything.

“It’s just for now,” I say with a teasing smile. “I’m not the walking-away kind, though, so...don’t get too used to it.”

I swear I can feel his gaze burning into me as I walk away.

Into the mansion, where the girls are waiting.

Into a nest of vipers.

NOW

The sound of the sheriff’s departing cruiser faded away a full minute ago, and Annaleigh is squawking in the kitchen, but here I stand, rooted in the foyer with my fists clenched, burning and burning with anger.

I lied. I do remember the name of the campsite where Josh was spending the night. And the diner. I know exactly where my husband was—or at least, where he was supposed to be.

In the moment, withholding that information from Mitchell and Adams was completely knee-jerk. The same instinct that activated the first day I was awake, when I grabbed Cam’s wrist in the limo: Protect yourself. And after seeing the look in Sheriff Mitchell’s eyes when he said, I think you killed him, my instinct to withhold is vindicated.

They don’t care about finding Josh. What they care about is pinning his disappearance on me, conjuring up a crime that didn’t happen, and locking me up.

It’s not even that the target on my back is new; people have been coming for me since I made my first social media post. But it’s one thing to be hated by girls in gowns or guys with spray paint. It’s another to be hated by a man with a pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt who’s looking at me like I’m his next steak dinner.

I don’t want this to be happening. Damn it, the sheriff should know that I can’t murder anyone. No Harm coding is kind of a big deal; Royce Sullivan himself could take me apart piece by piece and I wouldn’t even be able to put up a fight. But Mitchell won’t give a shit about the science, will he? I’ve heard his sound bites. My campaign promise is to send that goddamn Synth back to California. And if it’s prison instead of California, wouldn’t he be delighted.

The acid heat pumping through my veins feels like it’s corroding me from within. I have to move. Laundry—there’s laundry, right? Of course. There’s always laundry. I free Annaleigh from her high chair and set to work, moving her with me as I go. Laundry. Dishes. Countertops. The family room couch, which is in constant need of vacuuming from Captain’s hair. As I rake the attachment across the upholstery, I glance at the picture on the mantel above the fireplace—Josh and his mom. Staring at me, the intruder in their house.

I turn the vacuum off and face them.

“Where are you, Josh?” I say. There’s an unexpected, accusing edge to my tone. Ugh. I’m feeling all the wrong things. I’ve been thinking too much about myself.

What’s Josh going through? Is he scared? Confused? Or happy that he’s finally free of us? Either way, he has to be alive...right? He wasn’t in the crashed car. Even if he wandered off, lost, Indiana doesn’t have much in the way of killer wildlife. The terrain around Belmont Ridge is mild; no cliffs to fall off, no rivers to drown in. Is it possible that he disappeared on purpose, just to get out of our marriage? But...that doesn’t make sense. Why not just get a divorce? It’s not like I could have stopped him.

The hard truth is, I can’t know if he’s in terrible trouble, or meant to leave. But standing here looking at his photograph, my tumble of thoughts and emotion finally crystallizes into one single directive: find Josh.

Simple. Obvious. And the only way to ensure my safety.

I grab Annaleigh and a rag, and move my efforts to the entryway, where the sheriff and his deputy tracked in dirt. As I put Annaleigh down, I’m starting to concoct a plan. First, I’ll get our babysitter here. Then I’ll drive to the campsite, the first and most logical place to start my search.

Annaleigh issues a series of sharp little grunts as she tries to do her new trick: getting onto all fours. I get on my hands and knees, too, and wipe the rag over the tile. And then—

Tick-tick-tick.

I sit bolt upright on my heels.

“Josh?”

Tick-tick-tick. Fear crinkles up my spine. It’s his watch; I’d know the sound anywhere.

I can take it off, he offered...so sweet, just so sweet...

The memory hurts. I squeeze my eyes shut. What if I can’t find him? What if the campsite is a dead end? Then what?

Oh, Josh. You were never supposed to leave me.

But even gone, he’s not really gone—he’s burrowed into me, into my senses, my programming. Whatever the hell I am is so entwined with him I can’t even pick the damn ticking out of the tangles in my brain—

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